This is not freedom!
It is not the sum – the total of all
I feel inside,
It isn’t my wish, demand or collaborative
Appeal against conviction,
It is the drugging up of sanity
For the profanity that is my home.
It isn’t social housing but a cursing
Of my very own existence,
As belligerence of authority keeps
Persistence – targeting my very tortured woe;
It is this wreck upon humanity
Expressed by fields of rising concrete,
And sanctuary is but a leap away,
A leap away from tears as discrimination
Sets my heart dwindling by the incandescence
Of all polluted streetlights and street-life,
Be a life immersed in nothing more than pain.
It is my soul destroying exclamation
On a grey deluded horizon,
It is the cutting of my wrists
As Ghetto Birds and Z Cars
Patrol the hopes – the homeless
Keep for inspiration and escape,
Becomes nothing more than rape
Upon a Being condemned to hell,
And I’m considering a death-dive
As thriving in the arcades of the affluent;
Is the amusement of those that serve a sentence -
For nothing more than Born!
My twisted torso lies beneath,
Yet the concrete never changes colour
Despite the crimson attempt to paint it red,
And the coffins carried by as the neighbours
Salute upon the reaching of the sky,
And they and I both know;
How cheap they keep us poor!
Michael J Waite 25th September 2011.